


A Slip of the Tongue

by sansbanshees



Series: know that what we had was real [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 16:53:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7181216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansbanshees/pseuds/sansbanshees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn’t like Evelyn to panic when she is out of her depth. She has been known to grumble, on occasion. She has even been guilty of acting quite surly. But if this doesn’t call for panic, she isn’t sure what does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Slip of the Tongue

“No, no, no—Solas wait!” It isn’t like Evelyn to panic when she is out of her depth. She has been known to grumble, on occasion. She has even been guilty of acting quite surly. But if this doesn’t call for panic, she isn’t sure what does. “I don’t—”

He cannot be serious. He _can’t_. And yet he closes her hand around the brush handle anyway and points her to the fresco in progress on the wall despite her protests. And now he is leaving her here.

“You will be fine,” he assures her as he scales down the ladder. “I trust you.”

His mistake.

It shouldn’t be hard, in theory. It’s just…blue. And there is a helpful outline that she assumes she is meant to continue filling in while he prepares more of the same color down below.

She lifts the brush hesitantly, bristles hovering just above the slowly drying plaster. She is— This is— It will not end well. Artistic pursuits have never been a part of her skill set. She is far more adept at viewing a finished product and making thoughtful noises while she tries to think of some vaguely intellectual observation that she hopes is intentional on the artists part.

_What a subdued shade of cerulean. An insightful commentary on the futility of considering another candidate to lead Orlais when the current empress is entrenched so deeply the drapery matches her gown._

Or maybe he just likes blue.

She exhales slowly. This—is a far cry from the most frightening thing she has ever done. If she can escape an ancient darkspawn magister with aspirations of godhood in the midst of an avalanche and survive a trudge through a blizzard, she can put some paint on a wall. If she can face a literal Nightmare that fractured and stole her memories, she can do this. Objectively, it is an action she is capable of performing.

She glances down to gauge Solas’ progress with the desperate hope that he is nearly finished.

He is not.

He is hunched over the table that functions as his desk, not even looking up to check on her. _Why_ is he not checking on her? He cannot really trust her to do this. All of his work, hours of laying and leveling plaster, the strain it puts on his neck, his back, his arms, the knots she worked out of him from the last section he did… All that only for her to ruin it?

She groans in frustration and glances away, wincing as she presses the brush to the wall. She can’t look. She can do it because he trusts her to do it, but she can’t look.

“It won’t distribute evenly if you do not move,” Solas calls out, apparently checking up on her after all. She cannot decide whether he sounds more amused or concerned.

“I—” She sighs. “Right. Okay.”

She turns to face this terror head on. Her hand drifts slowly down the shape of the drapes he has outlined, a line of blue springing up in its wake. It isn’t straight, not entirely, but she has seen him do the same, circle back to fill in what he missed, so that is what she does and it’s—not terrible?

Emboldened, she continues. Stroke after stroke with the occasional break to saturate the brush once more. She has nearly used all that was left of the pigment when she feels a touch at her hand, gentle pressure guiding it into a slight tilt that alleviates the strain of her wrist. He offers no commentary, no advice, he simply adjusts her grip and leans over her to rest his chin on the crown of her head, an arm curling around her waist as he watches her work, the warmth of his palm pressed against her belly.

“So, do you want this back?” she asks after a beat of silence, tilting her head back to rest it against his chest. “Or have I been conscripted into service?”

When he doesn’t answer right away, she pushes back to nudge him with an elbow to his ribs.

“I am thinking.”

“ _Oh_ ,” she says, a sputter of laughter escaping. “All right. I see how it is.”

Evelyn steps out of his embrace and crouches down to wet the brush once more. Rather than continue with the wall, she turns, smiles, and drags the brush down the length of his nose.

It is his lack of a reaction beyond a twitch of his brow that tells her she has just made a grave mistake.

He looks at the brush she holds up like a white flag. He looks at her.

If there was ever a time to run, it’s now.

“Don’t!” She reels back, but there is only so far that she can go. “Wait! Truce. Come on.”

She squawks indignantly when he hooks an arm around her and draws her towards him. She finds herself spun around before she can think to stop it, her back pressed tight against his chest, both of his arms looped around her to hold her still.

“All right,” he says. “Truce. Would you like to open negotiations, or shall I?” His voice is so officiously neutral that she wonders briefly if he hasn’t done this before in a more formal setting.

She squirms, testing the strength of his hold. It is undeniably firm, unlikely to be broken without an underhanded move. She is not certain that she is willing to risk it yet—knowing Solas, he is counting on her to do exactly that. “Go ahead.”

“Surrender,” he says. Short. Succinct. Ringing with confidence and intractable as stone.

She snorts. This is not the first time that she has been outmaneuvered, nor is it the first time he’s made such a demand. Why he continues to bother with it, she will never understand. If he is stone, then she is the water rushing over him, wearing him down beneath a steady onslaught.

Of course, that takes years, centuries, which doesn’t help her now.

Defiance, then.

And perhaps a spot of cheating.

“No,” she replies, resolute.

“Interesting.” His neutrality has shifted closer to curiosity. “Unsurprising, but interesting. What do you have up your sleeve?”

She grins. He may not be able to see it, but she suspects that he can hear it in her voice. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I did not ask the question simply to hear myself talk,” he says, amusement at the forefront in his voice now, “but I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.”

Evelyn gasps in mock offense. “What, you don’t think we’ll be able to resolve this peacefully with talking?”

For a moment, Solas is silent, as if he is considering the likelihood. “Vhenan, I would sooner believe that Corypheus will stand down of his own accord.”

“You’re probably right,” she says. “So where does that leave us?”

“Unless you’ve a counter offer—” She shakes her head before he can finish the sentence. “Then it seems negotiations are at an end.”

“Solas?”

“Vhenan?”

“I love you.”

She freezes the moment the words leave her mouth, eyes wide. He does not let go of her, but his hold loosens considerably as his breath rushes out.

That—is not at all what she meant to say. Something smart about the Fade, perhaps. Maybe the Veil? Honestly, she’s forgotten how she hoped to rile him into a false step to exploit and it hardly matters now.

She manages to turn in the looser cage of his arms, bringing herself around to face him. “I, um—”

He does not let her finish. Whatever she meant to say is lost to the press of his lips against hers as he bends to reach her, his hands lifting to cup her face, his own head tilting to better align their mouths. She lets out a muffled noise of surprise but softens in an instant, letting herself be held, moved, her lips parting further as his tongue licks into her mouth. She threads her arms around his neck and drags herself further up, the need for breath forgotten.

How it happens, she isn’t certain, but Evelyn eventually finds herself on her knees, her back, her thighs spreading instinctively to make room for him to settle between them. Some part of her is dimly aware that they are in public, however late it is, however empty the library may be, and surely it won’t progress much further than this. Maybe she should break away, halt this until later before they go too far.

He draws away before she can, a small smile on his face and fondness alight in his eyes, and she nearly says it again, those three words that slipped her guard.

And then he drags his hand over her face, palm and fingers wet with what has to be thin blue paint out of the small container beside them.

She stares at him, a wide grin slowly pulling into place.

“You’re the _worst_ ,” she informs him.

Three _different_ words, but the message behind them is the same.

She drags him down for another kiss, careful to ensure as much contact as possible to make a matching set of stains on his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> for the prompt: goofy kiss + a bonus first time she says 'I love you' thrown in for no additional charge.


End file.
